


Cookies

by OfInfiniteSpace



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfInfiniteSpace/pseuds/OfInfiniteSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>two ficlets: Richard's baking efforts leave Gillian bemused. A few years later, Paul and Tommy share a little silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> written for holly-gofightly, for tumblr's Speakeasy Holiday Stash.

She finds Tommy covered in powdered sugar and knows there’s something amiss. He’ll need a bath and he’ll need a lecture, but first she sends him to his room, instructing him to sit still and wait quietly. He will, of course. Tommy is basically a very well-mannered boy.

But what was he doing in the kitchen? Tommy knows better than to bother the grown-ups there. It might have been some daft scheme from one of the girls. Too many of them spend their working hours playing with the boy, each trying to outdo the other with new escapades. She isn’t in the mood to speak sternly with them as well as Tommy, but if they’ve been unruly, it must be done.

Lips pressed tight, she enters the kitchen… And stops short, for a moment startled out of speech. Before her stands Richard Harrow, aproned and covered in powdered sugar, flour, flecks of egg white, a pan balanced in his hands.

When she recovers, Gillian clears her throat. “You made cookies.” 

He has the decency to look ashamed – she thinks, though she finds it hard to tell with him – and ducks his head to the side. “I’ll… clean up the mess.”

Vexed as she is, Gillian notes that there is something appealing about Mr. Harrow in an apron. Absurd, yes, but endearing. With those oven mitts, he looks positively domestic.

“Of course you will.” Her pencil-thin eyebrows lift almost indiscernibly. “Are the girls to be treated to your generosity?” 

“If it’s okay.”

“Just this once. The girls don’t need to be spoiled.” Head cocked, Gillian folds her arms. “I hadn’t realized this was a talent of yours.”

“Something I learned.”

She approaches as he sets the pan down, glances at its contents. Butter or sugar cookies of some sort, flecked with chocolate chips, and they had clearly spent too much time in the oven. A nearby batch seems to have fared no better.

“It looks as if you could use some practice. Still, I’m sure the girls will appreciate the gift.” Picking up one of the cooled cookies, she flashes a critical eye. It appears to have some shape, though she can’t say what it is. “And what are they supposed to be?”

“Snowflakes.”

She fights a smile and returns the cookie. “Well. I’m sure they taste lovely.” For those who don’t mind their cookies overdone.

“Tommy thought it might be, errm, a nice surprise.” 

Tommy. Yes. “He’ll need a bath, I hope you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

It occurs to her that Richard will need a bath, as well. In the back of her mind, Gillian entertains an idea of overseeing that bath, undoing the apron and helping him dispose of his now-filthy garments, running a sponge across his skin until every last sign of egg and sugar has gone. It is a silly idea, but not entirely an unpleasant one. “Just be certain that you take care of your mess. And please keep Tommy out of these hijinks from now on. Someone must show discretion.”

Before turning on her heels, Gillian takes one more long look at the man in his apron. It’s a sight she’ll hold in mind for years, sweeter in its way than any cookie could be.


	2. shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for holly-gofightly, for tumblr's Speakeasy Holiday Stash.

Paul has spent the evening beside the fire, refusing to enter the kitchen, hardly speaking to anyone. It isn’t exactly unprecedented – he’s been more sociable of late, perhaps consciously trying to make up for the absence, but these moods still come and go – and Julia and Emma have mostly left him to his silence. 

He can hear them in the kitchen, the scent of baking cookies filtering through with their voices. They’ve been at it for a while now (it must be mostly Emma’s work; baking’s never been Julia’s strong suit). Must have baked dozens of cookies. Paul takes another drink, rubs his forehead, tries to forget.

He doesn’t care for cookies. The sugar makes his teeth ache, and anyway they make him think of the times she used to make cookies. She. Julia’s mother. There had been cookies every year when she was around. Cookies had meant that she was home and that there was reason to be glad. Cookies had meant that everything still held together.

Well. Everyone leaves. What’s it matter? And they can make their cookies all they want. It’s all the same to Paul. 

He’s knocking back another drink when he notices the boy. “Yeah, kid?”

Tommy approaches, a napkin-wrapped cookie held carefully in hand. “Here.”

“Hey… why don’t you go share that with your Aunt Emma?” He’s trying to be gentle. He likes the kid, after all. Feels a little sorry for him, too. Seems like the shit just never ends.

“I have one too.” Holding up his other hand, the kid reveals that, yes indeed, he has another one. Two goddamn cookies.

“Look, kid. I’m not big on cookies, okay?”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, as if he doesn’t have the words for what he wants. Finally, he tries again, “I just want to sit.”

Something in the words gets him. Something in the look the kid’s giving, in the sound of that lost voice seeking something, appealing for the simplest kindness in the world. The kid’s seen so much. And the world’s a godawful fucking place – there’s no forgetting that – but every once in a while something can be done to lighten it. This right here? This is something Paul can do. 

Paul pulls the boy onto his knee and they sit in silence, staring into the fire and slowly nibbling at their cookies. And it’s nice – it really is – to be a little less alone. 

It’s the first time in years that Paul has enjoyed a cookie.


End file.
